Fiction
Death and the Old Man
The ultimate sacrifice
The old man moved silently through the house. Over the years he’d mastered the art of creeping quietly around his home after everyone had gone to bed, less he wake the kids, or even worse, his wife.
He tripped over one of his grandson’s toys, an old wooden fire truck he’d carved years ago. At one time he would have been mad, instead he just moved it to the toy chest with a slight smile.
Sometime after midnight the old man wandered down to his workshop. He couldn’t sleep. It was funny, now he had all the time in the world to catch up on all the rest he missed and now, it was harder than ever to get. It looked similar to the rooms many grandfathers have, a mix of workshop and study.
It was the only place in the house that was truly his, filled with projects half started, fishing tackle, and tools.
He poked through the antique wood carving tools he’d inherited from his grandfather. He dusted off the rocking chair he’d been building for his wife for years. Their anniversary was coming up, and he was determined to finish.
Until he heard a rumble and he could see his breath.
Instinctively, he knew who was there when he turned around.
